Five Darcy Daughters, Part I: Clarise
by eurochick
Summary: Like her mother before her, Elizabeth Darcy has given birth to five daughters, who now must all be married off.  This is the story of her eldest child's journey to love and happiness of her own.  It defies all summarization, so please just read and review
1. Twenty Years Later

_I always thought it would be funny if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ended up with five daughters that they had to marry off, and I've recently been toying with the idea of starting and Pride and Prejudice story. So here it is, the first in a series of stories about the five Darcy daughters! I know it may seem like it starts a little slow, but it'll get better, I promise. And if you're very good, I may even throw in a story about the lone Darcy son. _

_Before we start, though, a quick bit of background info. I decided to have Elizabeth and Darcy marry in 1813, the year the novel was published. Their daughters are: Clarise (b. 1814), Violet (b. 1816), Beatrice (b. 1817), Priscilla (b. 1820), and Sarah (b. 1823). Oh yeah, plus their son Clarence, Sarah's twin. Now, on with the show!_

April 1833: "Do you mean to tell me, Lizzie, that you and Darcy have never taken the children to France? Why, Richard and I spend nearly every summer there! Just think of all the opportunities the girls are missing! Clarise is practically of marrying age now, and she will never find a husband if she is not exposed to society!"

Elizabeth Darcy laughed softly to herself. Her sister was all grown up now, a married woman and the mother of four beautiful children, but she was still as irrepresible as ever. "Kitty, please. Clarise won't even be nineteen until June. She has plenty of time to find a husband. Although," and here she paused and raised her eyebrows, "I do not think it will be very long before she does, for there is a very charming young man by the name of Thomas Wyndham who has recently been paying her every bit of attention. And what do you think of that?"

Kitty smiled. "I think it is like Mama always used to say about Jane, that she could not be so beautiful for nothing. But I don't believe I've ever met this Thomas Wyndham. What is he like? Is he handsome? Where does his family come from? Is he very rich? You must tell me!"

This time, Elizabeth laughed out loud, ignoring the hurt look on Kitty's face. "Good gracious, so many questions! But I am afraid I must confess that we don't really know all that much about Mr. Wyndham, something that troubles Mr. Darcy exceedingly. I can tell you that he is the epitome of everything that is charming and well mannered, and I suppose he _is_ rather handsome, though that is something for Clarise to decide and not me. But other than that, we really know nothing."

"Lizzie, it isn't often that I am the sensible one and not you, but I really must say that I find this all very troubling. How can you bear to see your eldest daughter attached to someone of whose background you know nothing? I should think that Darcy would never permit it, even if you do."

"Rest assured, my dear sister, that all is well. Clarise is something of a romantic, but she is not so imprudent as to do something foolish, unlike a certain sister of ours." Kitty tittered at that. "And besides," she continued, "I do not think that she is quite so in love with him as to be blind to the fact that he _is_ something of an enigma. Besides, Mr. Darcy, if you can believe it, has hired the best private investigator to be found in all of Britain. If and when Mr. Wyndham proposes, a letter will be dispatched to London posthaste, instructing Mr. Porter to uncover everything there is to know about him. Consent will not be given until a satisfactory answer is returned. Those were my husband's exact words." She shrugged apologetically at Kitty's bemused expression and added, "He's a very protective father, that's all."

Her sister laughed. "Yes, that he most certainly is. But I know he only does it out of love, and if it keeps any one of my dear nieces from getting into trouble, then I suppose it is all for the best. I must say, though, that I could never see Richard doing something like that. Sometimes they act like such complete and total opposites that it's hard to believe that they're even cousins."

"Which, I suppose, is why Mr. Darcy and I have never taken the children to France, and why you and the Major-General travel there every summer," said Elizabeth sweetly.

Kitty completely missed the gently mocking sarcasm in her sister's voice. "Yes," she said, sighing happily, "Although I must say I would much rather go to France than not. And this summer, Lizzie, I want to take one of your daughters with me. Dear Clarise does seem like she would benefit so much from a trip abroad, and the south of France is _so_ beautiful in the summertime. Oh, please say she can come! I know she probably will not want to be taken away from her Mr. Wyndham, but it would be such _fun_!"

_Kitty is right about that_, thought Elizabeth, _Clarise will __not__ want to be taken away from Mr. Wyndham_. But she did not say any of that to her sister. Instead, she only smiled sweetly and said, "I shall have to speak to Mr. Darcy about it, but if Clarise is not Mrs. Wyndham or close to it by June, I think she would very much enjoy a trip to France with you and the Major-General."

"Oh, goody!" said Kitty, clapping her hands softly, "Richard and the children will be so very glad to hear it!"

"Yes," said Elizabeth softly, "I am sure they shall." Privately, however, she very much doubted that Clarise would ever travel to the south of France with her aunt and uncle. She was too devoted to Thomas Wyndham, a fact that neither Elizabeth nor her husband very much liked. They would be very happy to see Clarise safely away on the Continent for the summer. If only Mr. Wyndham would hold off on his proposals...

_So, what did you think? Does it have promise? Should I keep going? Let me know! And yes, Kitty did marry Colonel Fitzwilliam, although he's a Major-General now! Tee-hee. There's almost certainly another story there too. Oh, so many ideas and so little time to write! But don't let that stop you; write me a review! _


	2. Enter Mr Wyndham

_Sorry to keep you all waiting, but I've been rather busy lately. To be honest, I started this story with a clear idea of how I wanted it to begin and how I wanted it to end, but without much clue as to how all the middle was going to look. I rewrote this chapter over and over again until I was satisfied with it, and so I hope all of you are satisfied with it too. Enjoy._

Clarise Darcy was a beautiful young woman of almost nineteen, with wavy auburn hair and sparkling hazel eyes. But at the moment, she looked rather petulant, standing in front of her wardrobe and flipping through all of her gowns disdainfully. There was a ball tonight, and it was imperative that she look her best, for the great Thomas Wyndham was coming.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Clarise! Just put on the blue silk and be done with it!" cried her sister Beatrice in exasperation. Fifteen and a half year old Beatrice did not care much about fancy gowns, and she definitely did not care much about Mr. Wyndham.

"Really, dear? The blue silk? I'm not sure Mr. Wyndham cares much for blue," said Clarise, holding the gown up in front of her and posing before the full length looking glass.

Beatrice sighed loudly and threw up her hands. "Wear the green one, then. He likes green, doesn't he? And I don't really see why it matters, for he's sure to propose to you no matter what color your gown is."

Clarise dropped the blue silk on her bed on top of a pile of other discarded gowns and picked up the green dress her sister had indicated. "Mr. Wyndham does like green..." she mused, running the smooth silk skirts through her fingers.

"Then put on the gown and be quick about it, dear sister. Mother wants you downstairs to greet the guests as soon as possible." This time the voice belonged to Clarise's graceful seventeen year old sister Violet, who looked beautiful in her own gown of buttercream yellow poplin.

Clarise turned to look at her sister, who was standing in the doorway. "Is Mr. Wyndham here yet?" she asked as she motioned for Beatrice to fetch a maid to help her dress.

"No, he isn't," said Violet in her soft voice, "But he should arrive shortly, so please do tell Lucy to hurry." Lucy was one of the Darcys' maids.

Clarise smiled, showing her beautiful white teeth. "Then shoo," she said, clapping her hands softly, "Go downstairs and let me dress. Tell Mother I'll be there as soon as I can."

Violet left, motioning for Beatrice to follow. On their way out, they passed Lucy coming down the hall as quickly as she could, summoned by the bell in Clarise's room. She was carrying a large bowl of hairpins, and Clarise's newest fan dangled from her wrist by its delicate satin cord. In this, as in all things, Lucy was a determined and focused woman. Once she was done with her, Clarise was certain to be the most beautiful girl at the ball.

A good forty minutes later, Clarise was finally dressed and ready to make a dazzling entrance. "Oh, you look absolutely breathtaking, Miss Darcy!" exclaimed Lucy, "That young man of yours won't be able to keep his eyes off of you!"

"You are overly familiar, Lucy," said Clarise in an attempt to be stern, but her eyes were smiling. She did look breathtaking, and she knew it. The mint green silk of the gown was beautiful against her creamy white skin, and the garment itself was incredibly stylish, for the Darcys' dressmaker was the best in all of London. It was cut in the very newest style, with a full skirt, tightly corseted waist, off the shoulder neckline, and very full sleeves down to the elbow, all trimmed in soft ivory lace. With it she wore long gloves and satin slippers, and her hair had been done up in a mass of curls and ribbons. Clarise sighed with satisfaction at her reflection in the looking glass. Thomas could not be disappointed with her appearance this evening, of that she felt quite certain.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Clarise, darling, why are you not downstairs yet? The guests are starting to arrive, and your father is starting to ask why you are not there to greet them!"

"Sorry, Mother," replied Clarise, snatching her new fan from her dressing table and crossing to the door. Her mother was waiting there, looking beautiful and youthful in a gown every bit as stylish as Clarise's own.

Mrs. Darcy squeezed her daughter's hand affectionately. "You look wonderful! And just before I came upstairs, Violet told me she saw Mr. Wyndham alighting from the Monroes' carriage!" She spoke quickly and with artificial brightness, for she did not want her daughter to guess at how she felt about Mr. Wyndham. Not yet, at any rate.

Clarise smiled and headed for the stairs, flying down them as fast as she could without losing any dignity or messing up her skirts too badly. Elizabeth watched her daughter go, trying to conceal her anxiety. Tonight would be the night; she could feel it in her bones. Tonight would be the night that Thomas Wyndham proposed to her daughter.

All of Pemberley was brightly lit up that evening, especially the ballroom, which is where Clarise hurried now. And as soon as she entered the room, there he was. He was standing across the room from her, talking to several other young gentlemen. His back was to her, but she didn't need to see his face to know that it was him. She could identify him by how tall he was, and how broad his shoulders were, and by the fine coat of dark green wool he often wore. Standing in a group a little ways apart from Mr. Wyndham were her sister Violet and her cousin Reginald, son of her Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles. Clarise hurried over to them, for the closer she was to Mr. Wyndham, the better her chances of being noticed by him.

Violet saw her first. "So good of you to finally join us," she teased, as the two sisters greeted one another with an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

"He's here," Clarise whispered in her ear, very softly so Reginald wouldn't hear her.

"Oh, don't worry! You look absolutely beautiful. He'll ask you tonight; I feel sure of it," her sister replied just as softly.

"Cousins, cousins!" exclaimed Reginald, laughing, "I demand to know what it is the two of you find so fascinating!"

But he never received an answer, for just at that moment, Clarise was startled by a tap on her shoulder. She turned around and found herself looking up into the deep black eyes of Thomas Wyndham. "Good evening, Miss Darcy," he said, the very picture of gentlemanly behavior, "I would dance with you, if I may."

Clarise placed her hand in his. "Of course you may, Mr. Wyndham," she said, smiling radiantly up at him.

Another dance was starting, and Mr. Wyndham led her out to the dance floor. And like always, they talked while they danced. "I will admit," said Clarise as they circled the ballroom, "that I was very much hoping you would be here tonight."

He smiled and held her a bit closer. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, Miss Darcy. You know that."

Yes, she did know that. "That's what I thought, but I was still afraid you would change your mind and maybe find another girl to dance with at another ball."

"Oh, Miss Darcy," said Mr. Wyndham, "I could never do that. You are without a doubt the best dancer I've ever had the pleasure of leading onto the floor."

_And you, sir, are the greatest charmer_, thought Clarise. But she didn't mind. His words were extremely flattering, almost as flattering as he was handsome. She noticed that with every circle of the room they made, they grew closer and closer to the patio door. By the time this dance was over, they would be outside in the warm spring twilight, the scent of her mother's rose garden close around them.

But Mr. Wyndham didn't wait for the end of the dance. On their next pass around the room, he led her straight through the wide open french doors, not stopping until they were both seated on a broad stone bench a short distance from the house, far enough away so that the music and laughter emanating from the ballroom seemed somehow faint. Clarise could feel her heart pounding. She knew what was coming; she could feel it.

He moved closer to her and took both her hands in his. "Oh, Clarise," he said softly, using her Christian name for the very first time, "Oh, Clarise, I don't think I can even begin to put into words the way I feel about you. You and I, I just think that we're meant to be together. Something about the idea of us just seems so right to me. Does it to you?" He stopped to look intently into her eyes.

Clarise felt as if she was about to die from happiness. The scent of roses and of balmy spring air and of Mr. Wyndham's cologne filled her nostrils and threatened to overwhelm her. "It does!" she exclaimed, "Oh, it does!" There was so much more she wanted to say, but she just couldn't find the words to say it.

"Good," he said softly and Clarise was certain she could see the longing in his eyes, "You'll marry me, then?"

She felt as if her heart would burst. "Yes!" she breathed, and then she could say no more, for Mr. Wyndham slowly leaned in, took her face very gently between his hands, and kissed her lips.

Late that night, long after the rest of the household had exchanged their party clothes for nightclothes and crawled into bed, Mr. Darcy could still be found at his desk in his study. And when the next post was dispatched to London very early that morning, there could be found in the messenger's saddlebags a letter addressed to Mr. Maxwell Porter, private investigator. It was short, but it still said all that needed to be said. There had been a proposal, and now Mr. Darcy's instructions must be carried out. It seemed that Clarise's future happiness depended upon it.

_Did you like it? I hope this maybe gives you more of an idea as to where the plot is going. Or maybe it doesn't. I don't know. As for what Mr. Porter will uncover in his background check...Is it any coincidence that Wyndham sounds a little like Wickham? Maybe, maybe not. You'll just have to keep reading to find out. And as always, reviews are appreciated. Please and thank you!_


	3. What Mr Porter Found

_Hey, all. This story is turning out to be a lot harder to write than I initially anticipated. A lot harder, but still just as fun. Anyway, just a couple of quick things before we get to Chapter Three. First of all, for those of you who have been clamoring for a Kitty-Colonel story, I am planning to write one. Just let me finish this story first. Also, fortuneismymuse, I know that the Darcy children don't _have_ to get married. Clarise wants a husband, and Kitty wants one for her, because they're both sort of romantics. Sorry for any confusion that may have caused. _

A little over two weeks had passed since Mr. Darcy's letter had arrived in London, and still Mr. Porter had found nothing. It wasn't that he hadn't been trying, for he had sent letters to his contacts in every part of England, but to no avail. No one seemed to have ever heard of Thomas Wyndham. Time was running out; Mr. Darcy expected a reply by the end of this week, or Mr. Porter would not be paid. This worried him exceedingly, as he greatly needed the money. But it seemed to be no use; he had looked everywhere and found nothing.

Just at that moment, there was a pounding at his front door. A few minutes later, his maid Bess appeared in the dining room doorway. "This just came for you, sir," she said, holding out a letter.

"Who brought this for me, Bess?" asked Mr. Porter, wiping crumpet crumbs from his fingers and taking the letter. It was sealed with red sealing wax, but the design stamped into the wax was so smudged that he could not make it out.

"A messenger, sir, sent by one of your friends in Essex. He looked tired, sir, said he'd been riding all night. I asked him if he'd like to come in for a cup of tea and some breakfast, but he said he had other business to attend to."

Mr. Porter smiled wryly. Bess had been working for him long enough to know that friend was really just a synonym for business partner, one of the men spread throughout England who could send him information at a moment's notice, if requested. But, tactful creature that she was, she never alluded to this fact. He slipped his finger beneath the wax, breaking the seal, and dismissed his maid with a wave of his hand. "Thank you, Bess," he said kindly, "Why don't you go have a cup of tea yourself now?"

"As you like, sir," she replied and slipped quietly from the room. As soon as she had gone, Mr. Porter unfolded the letter and began to read. It was indeed from one of his most trusted Essex contacts, Frederick Donahue. After reading only the first paragraph, he put the letter down in shock and rang hurriedly for his maid.

She came at once. "Pen and paper, please, Bess," he said in a tight voice, "And please do hurry." After she left to go fetch these objects from his study, he continued reading the letter. If what it said was true (and he had no reason to doubt Frederick's word), then this was very bad news for the Darcy family. As he waited for his maid to return, he finished reading the letter, then read it through again to be certain that he had all the facts straight. The situation, it seemed, was very dire indeed.

The instant Bess returned with his writing implements, Mr. Porter put aside Donahue's letter and composed one of his own, addressed to Mr. Darcy. In truth, though, it was more of a note of introduction, explaining the circumstances under which he received the original letter. He believed, and quite rightly, that it was best to let the missive from Essex speak for itself. When he had finished writing, he folded the letter and sealed it with the wax Bess had remembered to bring him when she brought the pen and paper. Then he rang for her one more time and instructed her to give the letter to Paul, who was her brother as well as Mr. Porter's other servant. Paul was to set off for Pemberley at once with all haste, not stopping until he reached it unless absolutely necessary. He was to give the letter to Mr. Darcy personally, not placing it into the hands of another person at any time.

Once finished with that unpleasant chore, he returned to his breakfast, which was now grown quite cold. He knew that time was of the essence here, but he also realized that Paul would not reach Pemberley until very late that evening, at the absolute earliest. Well, that simply could not be helped. He had done his best and it was now out of his hands. All he could do was hope that his news would reach the Darcys in time.

Very late that night, long after the family had retired for the evening and Pemberley had settled into silence, there came a pounding at the front door. Mary, one of the family's maids, came running from her room in the back of the house and opened the door to find a tall young man standing there. His dark wool coat and hat were dripping wet, for it had been raining all evening, and in the darkness, Mary could just make out a horse tethered to one of the posts out front.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, startled. Behind her, the clock chimed half past midnight.

The young man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter, sealed with scarlet wax. "This is for Mr. Darcy," he said in a voice heavy with fatigue.

She reached out to take it, only to have the mysterious messenger draw his hand away. "I was told to give it to him personally, and not to anyone else."

Suddenly, a hand reached out over Mary's head and took the message. She looked up, straight into the face of her employer, who had managed to sneak down the stairs unnoticed. "Thank you," he said in his usual impassive voice, "Mary, fetch a coin and some hot tea for this gentleman. He's obviously ridden a very long way."

"Oh, I can't stay," said the young man, "I've reserved a room for the night at the inn in Lambton, and I must be on my way there now."

Mr. Darcy shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unperturbed, "As you like. But at least may I know who sent you?"

The messenger dropped his voice to a confidential tone. "I was sent by Mr. Porter in London, sir. Name's Paul."

Darcy raised his eyebrows and hurriedly broke the seal of the letter. After scanning it quickly, he turned to Mary and said, in a voice that was surprisingly not calm, "Please go wake Mrs. Darcy and Miss Darcy and have them meet me in my study. It is of utmost importance."

The maid nodded, her eyes wide, and hurried for the stairs. Paul had sensed that something was obviously wrong, and with a hasty bow, he beat a quick retreat. By the time the sound of his horse's hooves had vanished into the wet darkness, Darcy was sitting behind the desk in his study, reading the letter Mr. Porter had sent. His free hand clenched and unclenched into a fist as he took in the horrible words. He was furious. Not for all the wealth in England should he ever have allowed Thomas Wyndham to enter his home, much less romance his daughter.

Just then, he detected some movement at the door out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see his wife and daughter standing there, wrapped in dressing gowns and looking very sleepy. "Just what is the meaning of this, Fitzwilliam?" Mrs. Darcy asked indignantly, "It's nearly one in the morning!"

Clarise yawned and sat down in one of the leather chairs before her father's desk. Her mother dropped down into the other one. "Yes, Father, whatever is the matter?" she asked sleepily.

"This," said Mr. Darcy shortly. He pushed both Mr. Porter's note and Mr. Donahue's letter across the desk.

His wife picked up the note and read it, muttering choice phrases aloud as she went. "Trusted business partner...no reason to doubt his word...received his letter just this morning." When she was done, she threw the piece of paper down upon the desk and fixed her husband with an astonished stare. "Well?" she asked impatiently, "What did the letter say?"

Mr. Darcy very gently took her hand in his. "Let Clarise read it first," he said softly, and then he said no more.

Even before her mother had finished reading Mr. Porter's note, Clarise had snatched up the letter. She was no longer sleepy now, only curious. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper and began to read. This is what the letter said:

_Edward Porter-_

_I would write that I hope this letter finds you well, but there is no time for such formalities. Nearly two weeks ago, as I am sure you well remember, you wrote to me asking if I had any information concerning one Thomas Wyndham. At the time I did not, and I told you so. However, I was visiting with a very old friend of mine several days ago, and during a lull in the conversation, I offhandedly mentioned the matter to him. To my surprise, he seemed to recall a young man matching your description of Wyndham. He was not certain that it was the right person, though, as this young man's name was Lewiston. But I was so intrigued by what he had said that I urged him to think about it for a few days and to find out for sure._

_Days passed and my friend did not return, nor did he send me any new information, so I concluded that he had been mistaken and put the matter out of my mind. Then, late yesterday afternoon, he called on me again as he was returning home from business in town. While in town, he had seen his niece, whose name he asked me not to reveal. It is through her that his connection to Lewiston lies. Several years ago, when she was but seventeen, she had gone to spend the summer with some family friends at their house in the country. While there, she became acquainted with Mr. Lewiston, who was around twenty-three or so._

Here Clarise paused and did some quick mental arithmetic. Mr. Wyndham, she knew, was twenty-six, so this Mr. Lewiston was the right age. But it had to be just some sort of weird coincidence. Her beloved Wyndham just couldn't be anyone other than who he said he was. Could he? All of a sudden, she began to feel sick to her stomach, as if someone was tightening a vice around her middle. She dearly wished that her father had not dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night to read this strange letter. But she was too curious now to put it down.

_She found him handsome and charming, and before too long, had fallen in love with him. He, in turn, gave every indication of sharing her feelings. They discussed marriage. But even so, there was still something about him which troubled my friend's niece. She thinks that it was the frequent references he made to money. He did not seem to have many financial resources of his own, but she did not mind, because neither had she. However, and this is very important, he did not know that. The friends she was staying with were quite wealthy, and it appears that Lewiston thought she shared their comfortable circumstances. She did not tell him otherwise because she was too embarrassed._

_This aside, there did not seem to be anything between them with even the potential to cause problems, and the summer passed beautifully. Then, one day in late August, Lewiston came unexpectedly to call on my friend's niece. When they were alone in the woods far from the house, he suddenly and unexpectedly began demanding money of her. It seemed that he was over 2000 pounds in debt to various creditors, and that the money was due to be paid in a few days. She, of course, had no money to give, and she was at last forced to reveal her secret to him. At this point, he became very angry and started yelling at her, calling her a liar and saying she was no more than poor trash. When she tried to run away back to the house, he grabbed her and twisted her arm, very nearly breaking it. She tried to kick at him in an attempt to free herself, but he just hit her in the face, over and over again. The only thing that saved her from serious harm was the sudden appearance of one of the manor's tenant farmers, who drove off Mr. Lewiston and escorted the poor girl back to the house._

_She did not see the man again for the remainder of the summer, and it was only sometime after her return to London that she heard anything about him. He had moved away from that part of the country, it seemed, and had changed his name, although she did not know in what part of the country he was now living or by what name he now called himself. The only other piece of information she could give me, and I think it is actually quite valuable, is that she had been told he had somehow managed to ingratiate himself into polite society wherever it was that he now called home, and that he was currently involved with a young lady of confirmed large fortune. Granted, that is only a rumor, but in light of what you have told me, I think it is a rather significant one. The description provided to me of Mr. Wyndham matches that of Mr. Lewiston in every particular, so I think it highly probable that they are indeed one and the same. I would caution your client, whoever he may be, to keep his daughter well away from this young man. In light of his past behavior, I would say that he is most assuredly a fortune hunter. I can only hope that this letter reaches you, and reaches him, in time enough to prevent a great tragedy from occuring._

_Yours most sincerely, _

_Frederick Donahue_

Without a word, Clarise handed the letter to her mother. The room seemed to be spinning, and she had to reach out and brace herself against the arms of her chair for nearly half a minute before she was able to speak. When she finally found her voice, it was still no more than a shaky whisper. "Oh, Father," she said tremulously, "It just can't be true. It just can't. Oh, please tell me it isn't." She could feel her eyes and throat begin to fill with tears.

Her father fixed her with a look of such tender compassion that Clarise could hardly bear it. She hated being pitied. He handed her his handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose with, and said softly, "I too wish it was not true, dear heart. It pains me to be the bearer of bad news to anyone, especially my own daughter. But we have no reason to doubt the word of either Mr. Porter or Mr. Donahue, and what is said in this letter does not seem to me to be a coincidence. You must remember that we really know nothing whatsoever of Mr. Wyndham's background or circumstances."

Clarise could feel hot, salty tears sliding down her cheeks. It felt as if someone had taken her world and smashed it to pieces, and that even if she could somehow manage to put the pieces back together, they would never fit like they had before. A hot streak of anger coursed through her, but she was not quite sure exactly who she was angry at. She couldn't very well be angry with her father for telling her this, but yet she still found it hard to be angry at Mr. Wyndham. The idea of her beloved as a violent fortune hunter just seemed so remote as to be not quite real.

By this time, Mrs. Darcy had finished reading the letter. "Fitzwilliam," she said in a tiny, strained voice, "What are we going to do?" To Clarise it sounded as though she were about to cry, and that made her own tears flow faster, for her mother never cried.

"The only thing we can do, Elizabeth. There obviously cannot be any engagement. In the morning, I will write to Mr. Wyndham at the Monroes and tell him so. And I think, and I hope you agree, that it would be best for Clarise to spend the summer with her aunt and uncle in France."

"Who invited me to France?" asked Clarise, sniffling into her father's handkerchief.

Her mother cleared her throat. "When your Aunt Kitty was visiting here last month, she invited you to spend the summer with her and Uncle Richard and the children at their home in the south of France. I didn't tell you because I felt certain that you would be engaged by then and busy planning your wedding. I suppose," and here her voice faltered, "that I was partially right."

"It would be best, if we did not want people to talk, for you to be out of the country," said her father, "And I think a change of scenery would do your head good, especially with all the fresh sea air."

"I agree," chimed in his wife.

Clarise wiped her eyes and blew her nose one last time. "Can I have one night to think about it?" she asked.

"Of course, darling," said Mrs. Darcy soothingly. She scooted across to the edge of her chair and wrapped Clarise in a gentle hug, smoothing her hair. The two of them sat there like that for a while, while Mr. Darcy watched them and the study was silent. Then Clarise's mother kissed her soundly on the brow and sent her off to bed.

Clarise kissed both her parents on the cheek, and taking the candle she had brought down with her, went back up the wide front staircase and down the corridor to her bedroom. She lay awake in bed for a long time, staring up at the faint shadows the moonlight made on her ceiling. And when she came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, she told her parents that she would be happy to go with her aunt and uncle to France.

_What kinds of adventures will Clarise have during her summer in France? Chapter Four coming soon!_


	4. Stranger At The Beach

_Hey, everybody. I'm starting to get really excited about this story. Starting with this chapter, I think things are really going to start happening. So here it is. Enjoy._

Clarise accepted her uncle's outstretched hand and allowed him to help her down from the carriage. Once safely on the ground beside her aunt, she took the opportunity of surveying her new surroundings. The sky was a perfect, clear shade of blue, without a cloud to be seen, and the sun was blazingly bright, beyond anything she had ever seen in Britain. Before them sat the house, a beautiful large structure of sandstone brick. It was situated on a bluff, with a ravine tumbling down to the sea behind. A flight of rickety wooden steps had been built into the hillside, leading down to a stretch of white sand beach below. To Clarise's mind, it was heaven on earth.

"Oh, Aunt Kitty, it's beautiful," she breathed, "Thank you so much for inviting me here!"

Her aunt, a petite woman who was the personification of elegance, smiled at her benevolently. "It is our pleasure, Clarise. We are very glad to have you."

Fifteen year old Ella Fitzwilliam, Kitty's eldest daughter, tugged at her cousin's hand. "Come on, Clar. I want to show you your room."

"And I want to see it. Lead the way!" The two cousins dashed up the front staircase in a whirl of skirts and shawls, leaving Mrs. Fitzwilliam to stare after them. She could tell that Clarise was still upset about Mr. Wyndham, though she tried to hide it and very nearly succeeded in doing so. But surely she would forget about him, especially now that she was here, amidst all the beauty and society that was the south of France in the summertime. There were plenty of young men nearby who would be happy to see that she did. All Kitty could hope, as she took her husband's arm and followed the girls inside, was that Clarise would let them.

Meanwhile, Clarise allowed Ella to lead her through the entranceway, up the front staircase, and down a long corridor before finally stopping in front of a closed door. Her cousin opened it with one swift turn of the knob and ushered her inside. The room was large and airy, with tall windows looking out towards the sea. It was furnished with a four poster bed, wardrobe, writing table and dressing table, and was very similar in general appearance to Clarise's room at Pemberley, though not nearly so large.

"Oh, Ella, it really is lovely!" she exclaimed, dropping her bonnet on the bed and crossing over to the windows. From the second floor, she could tell that the bluffs on which the house sat looked out over a sort of half circle of sand and water. Bathers lined the shore, and Clarise wondered if there were perhaps a more private beach were she could go to be alone. She asked her cousin if such a place existed.

"Why yes," she replied in a startled voice, "It's around the corner of the near side of the cove. But why on earth would you want to go there? The crowds are always too much fun to miss."

"I didn't say I wanted to, Ella," she gently admonished her, "I was just curious, that's all. Would you mind terribly if I took some time to write a letter to my mother and tell her I've arrived safely?"

"Oh no, not at all," the other girl said brightly, "I'll see you downstairs later." And with those words, she left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Clarise sat down at the writing desk and took out a sheet of paper and a pen. But no sooner had she written the date, June 14, than she grew restless and stood up again. She didn't feel like being still. She felt like being daring, like being outside in the fresh summer air. On a whim, she decided to go find the beach Ella had told her about.

The family's trunks had been delivered the day before, and opening the wardrobe, Clarise found that her clothing had already been unpacked. She riffled through her dresses impatiently before she finally found the one she wanted, an old linen thing that had once been red but had now faded to a rosy pink. She had brought it because it would be perfect for taking a dip in the sea, if not worn over hoopskirts. As quickly as she could, Clarise wriggled out of her traveling dress and into this old one. Sorting through her hatboxes, she found an old straw bonnet trimmed in artificial roses and tied its ribbons beneath her chin.

Now came the difficult part. She opened the door a crack and peered out into the hallway. All appeared silent, and with several cautious glances to ensure it remained that way, she stole off down the corridor in the opposite direction from which she had come. After passing several closed doors, it occured to her that she didn't have the slightest clue where she was going. But no matter. She was in the mood for an adventure, and shrugging her shoulders blithely, she continued walking until she came to a narrow, dimly lit staircase on the left side of the corridor. The servant's staircase, she concluded, and she followed its twisting confines until it ended somewhere near the kitchens. From there, she tiptoed down the passageway for some distance before she discovered a door which, when opened, presented her with a view of the side yard. She was almost there.

As silently as she could, Clarise followed the wall of the house until she came to the corner, then cut across the lawn. She descended the stairs slowly and gingerly, for they were quite unstable. And then she was there, really there. The sand was deserted as far as she could see to the left, but there were crowds of people only about ten or fifteen yards away to the right. She went to the left, fighting the urge to take off her shoes and stockings and feel the sand between her toes as she did so.

Eventually she came to a bend in the bluff, which was marked by a sort of screen of dunes. Hitching up her skirts, she climbed nimbly over them and slid down the other side. What she saw there brought a smile to her face. Soft white sand stretched away into the distance before her, completely deserted. It was bordered on the other side by another wall of dunes. Someone had long ago built a wooden pier, now dilapidated, that stretched far off into the water. Clarise wanted to run down it and jump off the end, but she restrained herself. It was hard though. The sun was so bright and clear, and the water such a brilliant shade of blue that she just wanted to be a part of it.

She sat down with her back against a dune and began to think. She was glad to be here, really she was. Her unhappiness had nothing to do with her aunt and uncle's invitation, and everything to do with Mr. Wyndham, or Mr. Lewiston, as she supposed she must now call him. She had loved him; she really had. His proposal had made her the happiest woman in the world, and then it had all been ripped away from her in an instant. Even now, the thought of his deception made her so angry that she involuntarily twisted the fabric of her skirt between her fingers.

She ought to have known that he would only be after one thing from her: her fortune of twenty-five thousand pounds. Really, she was astonished with herself for not seeing that fact until it was too late. It was common knowledge that her father was extremely wealthy and that anyone who married a Darcy would have immediate access to money and connections. Right now, Clarise truly didn't know how she would ever again be able to trust any young man who seemed as if he liked her. How was she ever to know whether it was Clarise Darcy they liked, or just Clarise Darcy's last name and thousands of pounds?

With that thought, she looked up, and to her astonishment, saw a figure approaching from the dunes opposite her. As it drew closer, she could see that it was a man, quite tall and broad shouldered. Inwardly panicking, she hastily pulled on the shoes and stockings that she had discarded while sitting there, grimacing at the feel of sand in her shoes. By the time the stranger reached her, she had stood up and dusted off her skirts, trying to look as ladylike as possible.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" he hailed her, and Clarise's heart involuntarily flipped when she got a good look at him. He towered over her, easily surpassing six feet, with dark curly hair and eyes like flint. His clothing was simple: a pair of tan pants and a white shirt damp with perspiration, but the way the shirt clung to his muscular chest and shoulders sent little shivers up and down her spine. It was weird; she had never had that reaction to anyone before, not even Mr. Wyndham.

"Bonjour, monsieur," she replied, hardly daring to lift her eyes to his face, even though she was dying to. For the first and probably last time, she inwardly blessed Mrs. Regis, the cranky old governess who had taught her French.

"And what is your name, pray tell?" he asked in that language, smiling.

Clarise hesitated, not really sure that she wanted him to know who she was. But yet, she still wanted to know him. And then it came to her. As Miss Clarise Darcy, she would always run the risk of being valued for her fortune and nothing more. But what if she wasn't Miss Darcy at all, what if she wasn't even British? It would be a longshot, and quite risky, but she thought she could do it. She could, and she would, fool this man into believing she was nothing more than a French girl with the kind of fortune most men would be indifferent towards. It would be her own sort of social experiment. "Marie Archambeau," she replied, hoping that he wouldn't notice the way her cheeks flushed as she said it, "And yours?"

"Jean," he replied, then seemed to pause before adding, "Dubois. Jean Dubois."

She curtseyed. "I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Dubois. Do you come here often?"

He returned her curtsy with a polite bow. "Likewise, mademoiselle. And as for your question, I believe I come here tolerably often, but not nearly so much as I would like. It is beautiful, is not it?"

"Oh yes, quite beautiful!" said Clarise enthusiastically.

"To turn your own question back on you, do _you_ come here often?" he asked her.

"And to reply as _you_ did, not nearly so often as I would like." It was not a lie, she insisted to herself, it was just not the complete truth.

He grinned. "Perhaps we should both of us make the journey more often."

His meaning was not lost on Clarise, and she suddenly felt very shy. She also realized just how long she had been gone, and knew that if she did not appear in the drawing room soon, Ella would come looking for her. "Perhaps, monsieur. I know _I _should like to. But not now, for now I must go."

Mr. Dubois bowed again. "Then I will excuse you, and hope to meet you again soon."

"I think I should like that," said Clarise softly, and then she turned and walked away, hoping she didn't trip and fall as she rescaled the dunes. Happily, she didn't, and she was soon safely on the ground again on the other side. After pausing a moment to catch her breath, she hurried down the beach and up the steps. No sooner had she reappered atopt the bluff than she saw Ella hurrying across the lawn towards her.

"Clarise!" she exclaimed when they had reached one another, "I didn't expect to see you here. Where in the world have you been, and what on earth are you wearing?"

"Oh, I just went for a little walk down on the beach," her cousin replied nonchalantly, ignoring the reference to her attire. She didn't mention Mr. Dubois. For some reason, she felt extremely shy of talking about it, even with, and perhaps _especially_ with, Ella.

"You always _were _strange, Clar, but I dare say this is odd even for you. Well, anyway, come inside and put some normal clothes on. You and I and Mama and Papa were invited to dine tonight with the Fergusons."

"Who are the Fergusons?" asked Clarise as they turned their steps toward the house.

"Oh, just two of the most wonderful people in the world! Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson are both so nice, and Mama tells me that Mr. Ferguson's younger brother is staying with them, and that he is rumored to be _very_ handsome!"

Clarise laughed. "In that case, then, I can hardly wait." Ella spent the time until they reached the house talking excitedly about the Fergusons, the as of yet unseen brother, and how exciting the evening was sure to be, but Clarise scarcely heard her. She was lost in her own thoughts, and as might be imagined, those thoughts were all about Mr. Dubois. She had never seen anyone so handsome. And he was nice, too! For a moment, she did feel a little bad about lying to him, but the sensation passed quickly enough. It wasn't as if anything could ever happen between them anyway. He was French and she was British. She would probably never even see him again.

_There you go. What did you think? Oh yeah, two quick things before I let you go. One, I don't claim any real knowledge of the south of France. Everything I know comes from watching the Tour de France on TV, so I apologize if my description is in any way inaccurate. Second, I realize it may seem odd that Mr. Dubois introduced himself by his first name. I think you'll find out in the next chapter why he did that. Until then..._


	5. Not Who He Seems

_Hello again! It's good to be back. I wish I could have had this chapter up sooner, and I would have if my life wasn't so crazy. I thought senior year was supposed to be easier than junior year, but I guess I was wrong. My advice to you would be to never take calculus. But anyway, thanks to those of you who reviewed. I love it that people are starting to get interested in this story. And no, sorry to disappoint you, but Mr. Dubois and Mr. Ferguson are not the same person. But those of you who thought so were close, very close. Read on..._

Had Clarise happened to look back as she walked away down the beach, she would have seen Mr. Dubois staring after her until she vanished over the crest of the dunes, a smile playing on his lips. Once she was out of sight, he turned and walked back the other way, thinking about her as he went. She was incredibly gorgeous, all long limbs and soft curves, with shiny auburn curls and the brightest pair of hazel eyes he'd ever seen. She must not be a member of society, though: he'd never heard the name Marie Archambeau even mentioned in those circles. And that dress she had been wearing was truly hideous. But truth be told, he hadn't really paid that much attention to it. He'd been too busy looking at her.

He climbed over the dunes and up a flight of stairs built into the side of the bluff, almost identical to the ones Clarise had climbed. The top of the bluff was flat and grass covered, dotted with little trees. His horse was tied to one of them, and he swiftly untied it and rode away, prodding his mount into a rapid canter. He wanted to ride fast, to feel the wind in his face. Maybe it would clear his head, which was currently in desperate need of clearing. You see, he had done a very bad thing: he had lied to Mademoiselle Archambeau. He had told her a terrible lie, and if she knew he had done it, she would probably never forgive him.

His horse of its own accord turned northward, following the dusty ruts of some ancient and unnamed road. The sun burned into the back of his neck, and he wished he had brought a hat. A small rise in the road fell away beneath his horses's rapidly moving hooves, and there on the other side he caught his first glimpse of an absolutely massive stone mansion, still off in the distance, but growing ever closer. He passed through an imposing iron gate and then through a large and elegantly manicured garden, finally pulling his horse up in front of the entrance to the mansion's courtyard. A uniformed servant came hurrying across the flagstones towards him, crying, "Ah, Monsieur Gauthier! We saw you from the window! I trust you had a pleasant afternoon?"

His companion dismounted in one fluid motion and handed over the reins. "Yes, very pleasant. I find that this part of France improves greatly with every return visit."

"I am glad to hear it, monsieur. Shall I take your horse to the stables?"

"Please. And where might I find my sisters?"

"The young mistresses are in the back drawing room with Mademoiselle Clemenceau and Mademoiselle de Luna."

"Thank you," replied his employer, and walked away. At least now he knew what part of the house to avoid. Mademoiselle de Luna's society could be enjoyable, but all the others were invariably irksome, and right now he could think of nothing but his meeting with Mademoiselle Archambeau. He crossed the courtyard, his boots making clicking noises on the stones, climbed the front steps, and entered the house. The entrance hall was welcomingly cool, and he paused to rest his forehead against the stone wall momentarily before walking down one of the side corridors to his study.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him and locked it. Crossing to the bar, he poured himself a shot of cognac and downed it in one gulp, wincing as he felt the unfamiliar fire spread across his chest. He didn't often drink, except during the aftermath of events that were confusing or strange, like the one that had just occured down at the beach. When the burning sensation had subsided, he sat down at his desk and began to think, massaging his temples as he did so.

By now, the nature of the lie he had told to Clarise should be quite obvious. His name was not really Jean Dubois. It was in fact Jean-Paul Gauthier. He was twenty-six years old, and upon the simultaneous death of his father and an unmarried uncle in a boating accident nearly a year ago, he had become the fourth richest man in the entire nation of France. He was also the sole guardian of his two younger sisters, seventeen year old Amelie and fifteen year old Yvette. His only brother, twenty-two year old Georges, was an adventurer in Algeria and no had heard from him in several years. Their mother had died of an infection shortly after Yvette's birth.

He wasn't quite sure why he had lied to Mademoiselle Archambeau like that. He was not generally a lying sort of man. But when he really thought about it, he supposed he had done what he had done simply because he hadn't wanted her to know who he was. Pretty much every woman he had ever met had wanted to marry him, not only because he was handsome, but because he was incredibly wealthy. And the problem had only intensified since the death of his father and uncle, much to his continual annoyance. He hadn't known that there were so many gold diggers in the entire country as he had met in the past year.

And if Marie Archambeau's dress was any indication, she didn't have a lot of money of her own. But yet she was so beautiful that it just didn't matter. It wasn't like he needed anyone's money anyways. He found that he liked her a great deal, and that he wanted to get to know her better, and if that was the case, there was only one way to go about it. He couldn't approach her as Jean-Paul Gauthier: every woman in France knew that name, even if they didn't know the face. No, his real name was out, and in its place was Jean Dubois, who was a handsome man to be sure, but one with an indeterminate fortune that tended to the small side. It was the only way he could think of to try to get a woman to like him for who he was, not for what he had.

An uncomfortable thought pricked at his conscience. What if you really fall in love with her? What if you want to marry her? What then? That's preposterous, he answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. He had lived in the world for twenty-six years and three months without truly being in love with any woman; he thought it highly unlikely that he would start now. But still...there was something unsettling about the whole situation, and he had to force himself not to pour another shot of cognac. What had he just gotten himself into?

There was a knock at the door, causing him to look up sharply. "Who is it?" he asked.

"It's just me, darling brother. Why don't you come down to the parlor instead of sitting in there all by yourself? Brigitte longs to see you." The voice belonged to Amelie. Brigitte was Mademoiselle Clemenceau, who had made no secret of the fact that she would love to sink her claws into him.

He sighed. "I'll be there in a moment, Amelie." He waited until the sound of his sister's footsteps receded into silence, then stood and stretched. Perhaps it would be better to go sit in the parlor. Maybe it would take his mind off of the all too lovely, yet all too mysterious, Marie Archambeau. He unlocked the door and stepped into the hall, both wishing and fearing that it would be that easy to forget her.

_What did you think? I personally really like where this story is going. I hope to have the next chapter up a little sooner than I had this one up, but we'll see. Reviews are always nice..._


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